


The Time That Is Given

by AuthorToBeNamedLater



Series: Keeping Up With The Raptors [2]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Sports, Catholic Character, Christian Character, Christianity, Gen, Hockey - Fandom - Freeform, NHL, NHL - Fandom - Freeform, NHL - Offseason, Norway (Country), Original Character(s), Raptors, Roman Catholicism, Seattle, Spiritual, Sports, Sports Radio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:10:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorToBeNamedLater/pseuds/AuthorToBeNamedLater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andor Ronningen has to decide whether he wants to keep playing hockey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Time That Is Given

**Author's Note:**

> AM 710 actually is Seattle's sports radio station. I looked it up. Fred Vallander and Phil Latham are not real, though.
> 
> Also, Roberto Luongo does currently play for Vancouver, but he probably won't much longer. I just sped up the process a little, and it's advantageous to what I have planned for this series down the road.
> 
> If you're new to Raptors Nation, you may want to read "The Agony of Defeat" before this.
> 
> And yes, I have been to Bergen, Norway and yes, it is that beautiful.

****LaJeunesse hated breakdown day.

A few days after the postseason ended, the team had to come into the Boeing Arena, pack up all their stuff, and the head coach and GM had to conduct exit interviews before the team could head out for the offseason. Unless the team had won it all, this day was bound to be depressing. And when the team had lost it all, it felt like a funeral.

Only a few days had passed and the team was still in shock. LaJeunesse had reassured the two rookies that short of a repeat performance, their second year could hardly have a worse ending. Gunnar Norgaard had almost cried. Sandy Garneau, who had way more to mourn than a Stanley Cup, was outright despondent. Even the perpetually up-tempo Hank Sheridan had been down in the dumps.

And now came Andor Ronningen. The big defenseman entered his coach's office, sat down, and gave a blank stare that said, _“I'm sure not going to talk first.”_

This wasn't surprising, so LaJeunesse plowed ahead.

“You’re sure you want to retire, Andor?” LaJeunesse asked across his desk. No sense wasting time with pleasantries—neither one of them had much patience for that.

Andor nodded.

“And you’re positive this isn’t because the game just dealt you a blow?”

Andor nodded again.

LaJeunesse sat back. Andor never had been a big talker, but they were going to need more than this.

“This is an interview, not a monologue,” LaJeunesse informed gently. “I need some words out of you.”

“Game's dealt me a lot of blows,” Andor said tonelessly.

“I know,” LaJeunesse acknowledged. “But I don't want you making emotional decisions you can't go back on.”

“Right.”

This was not going as well as LaJeunesse had hoped. “You talk to your family?” LaJeunesse asked.

“They know.”

“Have you _talked_ to them?” LaJeunesse repeated. “Asked their opinions? Advice? What about the team?”

“Not recently,” Andor admitted.

LaJeunesse folded his hands on the desk. Sandy and Andor weren’t similar personalities at all, yet interestingly they both tended to isolate. But where Sandy became borderline self-destructive Andor just withdrew from the world. A separate problem, but one no less serious.

“I just can't do this anymore, Coach,” Andor said quietly. “I'm old, and I'm tired, and I'm done.”

 LaJeunesse understood his player's position. Andor was old, no way around that. And of course he was tired--25 years of professional hockey would leave anyone exhausted. LaJeunesse couldn't blame Andor for wanting to leave hockey behind right now. What he didn't want was to see Andor make a life-altering decision in the wake of a heartbreaking loss.

“Listen, I don’t want you to make a decision right now,” LaJeunesse advised. “This was a hard loss.” The coach barely stopped himself before saying “ _Especially for you.”_ “Take some time to think and regroup, and then decide. You’ve got time. OK?”  
“All right,” Ronningen agreed with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

 _This is just wrong,_ LaJeunesse thought. He knew players couldn’t control their destiny (no matter how many said otherwise), but the idea of Ronningen ending his career like this…it wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right.

.

.

.

Fred Vallander, the “Val” of Seattle’s _Latham & Val Morning Show_, was a sports talk host. He’d come up through the ranks as an intern fetching coffee, then a beat writer, and finally behind the microphone when someone at RSN had overheard him talking about a Mariners game. Now Fred had for 10 years shared the 6:00-10:00am slot on AM 710 ESPN Radio in Seattle with Phil Latham, former Seattle Raptors goalie and Stanley Cup champion. And Fred loved it. He saw his job as a chance to get paid to do what he'd do anyway: talk about sports all day long.

Timbaland's “Give It a Go” faded out as the third hour began. Phil and Fred had spent most of the morning talking about the Mariners, but you could only talk so long about a baseball team bound and determined to remain irrelevant. For the next segment, the hosts had promised their listeners hockey talk, and they were about to deliver.

“So we’re halfway through this offseason, after the Raptors essentially gave the Stanley Cup to New Jersey,” Fred started, “and Pat MacGregor has said he doesn’t see the need to make any big moves because he has a roster that ‘almost won everything.’” Fred sat back in his chair and threw his hands up, although his audience couldn’t see him. “Really Pat? Well I got bad news for you: You didn’t win everything! Close counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and nuclear weapons.”

Phil, ever the yin to Fred’s yang, predictably came out with a more measured and analytical remark. “Well, what do the Raptors really need to do?” He asked. “This year they had one of the finest offenses in the league, a tight defense, they finished second in the conference. That’s their highest finish in what, 10 years?”

“They could get rid of that head case they call a goalie, for one,” Fred huffed.

“Sandy Garneau?” Phil shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

“Yes!”

“No.” Phil kept shaking his head. “Garneau was unbelievable up until this year. He got hurt; he had some personal problems. You’re gonna throw away a goalie who gave his team five great years because of one lousy one? Who’s to say he won’t come back next year?”

“Picked a heck of a time to have a lousy year,” Fred groused.

“I’m saying, don’t write Garneau off because of this year,” Phil went on, leaning across the table at Fred as if they were having a discussion about something that actually had bearing on the world and not a guy who had, for all intents and purposes, just hit a rough patch at work.

“Oh for God's sake, Phil, you're a hockey guy!”

“Yeah!” Phil said with a little laugh. He was a Washington native and had played for the Raptors for seven years until he got traded to the Detroit Red Wings following Seattle's 1994 Stanley Cup win. Phil had won two more Stanley Cups with Detroit before he retired in 2000 after he never fully recovered following a hip injury. “I am! 14 years, and I'm telling you, it would be a huge mistake to get rid of Sandy Garneau. For one thing, they'd have to eat part of his contract for the next...what, four years?”

“Teams eat contracts all the time,” Fred said stubbornly. “Vancouver's gonna be chomping on Luongo's for about the next decacde.” Not that Fred, or anyone in Seattle, minded watching the Raptors' neighbors to the north suffer a little. The Vancouver Canucks had shipped Roberto Luongo, their starting goalie, to the Toronto Maple Leafs a couple of weeks ago. Why a team that had missed the playoffs for eight years straight would sign a goalie that routinely turned in lousy playoff performances was beyond Fred, but nobody had asked him.

“And Garneau doesn't want to go.” Phil ignored his co-host. “He's said his kids are in Vancouver and he doesn't want to be any further away from them. It's not like the team has salary cap issues. Gaerneau's staying here.”

“Yeah, but Phil, he still _lost the Stanley Cup for his team._ ”

“No, he did not!” Phil insisted. “Look at everyone else: None of the offense could get past the Devils. Even in the games the Raptors won it was close. Stan Cibulka...I don't know what happened to him, but he passed up some great hits, especially in Game 7. Zhenya Rusakov's supposed to be their primary enforcer, and he looked like he was gunning for a Lady Byng nomination.”

“But would you not say Garneau bears most of the responsibility?” Fred persisted.

“I'm not saying none of this is his fault,” Phil said. “But you can’t put all blame on Sandy Garneau’s shoulders. We've seen him at his best, and he's too good to give up. The Raptors would be making a huge mistake.”  
Fred decided to find a different topic. “So on to other Raptors: Andor Ronningen, currently hiding out in Norway, has yet to announce a decision on his retirement. And I have to wonder if this is because he isn't ready to go yet. He doesn't want this to be his defining legacy. 'This' being three Stanley Cup losses.”

“Well...” Phil sighed. “I mean, I think it's going to be anyway whether he likes it or not.”

“I have to agree,” Fred shrugged. “I don't blame him for being a little hesitant. Nobody wants their career to end like this, and Ronningen could have another good year in him. He's still got the stuff. But the truth is anytime someone discusses Andor Ronningen's NHL legacy they're going to bring up three Stanley Cup losses. Unless he hangs on and the Raptors by some miracle win it next year. But if he sticks around, at least he won't have this year as his final memory of the NHL.”

.

.

.

As St. Peter's Catholic Church in Bergen, Norway emptied out following Sunday morning Mass, Andor Ronningen told his wife to take the boys home; he would catch up shortly. He sat in the pew until all the parishioners had left and then rested his forearms on the pew in front of him and bowed his head.

Andor loved his hometown. The winters were frigid, but for the last two and a half decades (had it really been that long? Better not to think about it, Andor decided) he hadn’t had to deal with them. And the summers rarely cracked 75 degrees. The quaint houses, bustling yet unhurried streets, glorious, unspoiled beauty of creation...Andor didn't understand how anyone could visit his homeland and not believe in God.

Bergen was a good place. A good place to bring his family and spend his retirement years in peace. He and Inna had decided not to move at least until Thorsen was out of high school, but when they did Andor could put as much distance between himself and three Stanley Cup losses as possible. No one would ask him about it. He'd just be the local kid who'd played in the NHL and done his town proud.

Of course, Andor wouldn’t stop asking himself about it. No matter how much he denied it to the team, the media, or even himself, those losses would loom over Andor Ronningen’s every memory of this career.

Not that Andor had any regrets. He wished he could have been on the winning end of at least one of those Cup Finals, but he didn’t regret it. Regret would solve nothing. He'd had 23 years to play the game he loved at the highest level. Andor had played alongside Ray Bourque and Cam Neely—two Boston Bruins greats whose numbers currently hung from the rafters at TD Garden. If he'd stayed in Europe instead of striking out for the NHL, Andor never would have met Inna and he wouldn't have his sons. They were more precious to him than any championship could ever be.

But was it so wrong to wish he could have had just _one_ championship, too?

 _Stop it,_ Andor ordered himself. It was becoming a frequent c. _Y_ _ou know how many of the kids you played with even got to the European leagues, never mind the NHL? And of the ones who got to the NHL, how many even got close to a Stanley Cup? Not many. Quit feeling sorry for yourself._

It had been six weeks since the season ended and Andor still couldn't bring himself to announce a retirement decision. His agent at the Raptors had given him plenty of breathing room, and Andor appreciated it. But he knew he needed to decide something, and soon. At the moment the Raptors had four million dollars a year tied up in the oldest player in the entire league. Andor owed it to them to either decide he was staying around or let the team take that money and pursue a younger set of legs.

He knew that he should go with the second option. But something was stopping him.

 _The peace that passes all understanding._ Fr. Underdahl had spoken on that passage this morning. _“Even when we don't understand our circumstances, we understand that God is in the middle of them.”_

_Oh, dear Lord, what do You want me to do?_

“Andor?”

Andor looked up. “Father,” he greeted the priest, Fr. Underdahl. Fr. Underdahl had served at St. Peter's since Andor could remember. He had performed Andor's baptism, confirmation, first communion, and wedding. The priest was nearly 70 now, but he was still spry and his blue eyes still had that playful twinkle that Andor remembered so well.

“Father,” Andor greeted.

The priest smiled kindly. “Am I intruding?”

Andor shook his head and looked at the flagstone on the floor.

Fr. Underdahl said nothing else but continued to stand near the altar, as if he knew Andor didn't actually want him to leave.

“Is something troubling you?” The priest prodded after a few moments.

 _Got all day?_ “I don't want to retire,” Andor finally said. “But I don't know what else to do.”

“If you don't want to retire,” Fr. Underdahl said calmly. “Your only other option is to stay.”

It all seemed so easy. Then why was it so hard?

“I look at my situation and I know I should leave,” Andor said. “I probably could have justified leaving three or four years ago.”

“But...?” Fr. Underdahl prompted.

“I can't.” Andor scrubbed his hands over his face. “You know that peace that passes all understanding that you talked about this morning?”

Fr. Underdahl nodded. “It's nice to know somebody was listening.”

Andor smiled weakly. “I don't have it.”

“Can you think of why God might not have given you that peace?”

Andor looked up toward the altar, at the image of Christ on the cross. “Because He wants me to spend another year getting beat up by kids half my age?”

Fr. Underdahl sat in the next pew forward. “Andor.” He waited until Andor was looking at him. “I've been thinking about this.” At Andor's raised eyebrows the priest added, “You don't exist in a vacuum, Andor Ronningen. Plenty of other people care what decision you make here.”

Sufficiently chastened, Andor looked back at the floor.

“Look at me, my son,” Fr. Underdahl said in that tender-but-commanding voice all priests seemed to have. When Andor had complied, Fr. Underdahl went on: “And I have a feeling that the Lord is not done writing your story yet. I gather you have that feeling as well.”

Andor was stunned. It was a perfect, concise summation of what he had been going through for the past month.

Seeming to know he had hit a nerve, Fr. Underdahl smiled. “I won't tell you what to do, Andor. But I will say it would be a shame for you to write your story before the Author has finished, would you agree?”

Andor slumped forward. “I just wish...” he spread his hands helplessly. “I wish this year had never happened.” He let out a sigh. “Not the whole year, just...the Finals.”

Fr. Underdahl stood and gently clapped Andor on the shoulder. “So do I,” he said. “But in the words of Gandalf, that is not for us to decide. All we have to do is decide what to do with the time that this is given to us.”

Andor lifted his head and nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. He stood from the pew. “Thank you, Father.”

Fr. Underdahl smiled and gently clapped Andor on the shoulder. “Say hello to Inna and the boys for me.”

Andor turned to leave the church and walk home, feeling lighter than he had in months.

.

.

.

Inna Ronningen pulled the salmon fillets out of the refrigerator and poked them with her finger. Still mostly frozen. She shut the door and looked out the kitchen window. Her sons, ages 16, 13, and 10, were playing kickball in the driveway, and thus far no blood had spilled and no bones had been broken.

Inna turned her attention back to the food she was supposed to be preparing. Andor had stayed at church after Mass, leaving Inna plenty of time to get herself worked into a tizzy about his impending retirement.

Andor often told his beloved that she got worked up too easily. In her more rational moments, Inna agreed with him. When he was getting worked up, however, she believed her reaction 100% appropriate. Inna had spent the last half hour preparing a speech for her husband, ready for delivery the moment he walked in the door.

“Hi Dad!" 

Inna glanced up as her youngest, Thorsen, greeted his father.

“Can you play with us?” Mikkjel, the middle boy, asked.

“Not right now.” Andor ruffled Mick's hair. “I need to talk to your mom.”

“What were you doing at church?” Mick called.

“Just talking to Fr. Underdahl.”

Inna turned to face the door as Andor entered, hands on her hips, speech ready.

“Andor, I don’t want you to retire,” Inna declared before her husband even shut the door.

“OK,” Andor agreed easily.

Inna didn’t register it. “You have worked too hard.” She stood up and strode into the foyer. “You do _not_ want that to be your last game, Andor Ronningen, and you know it. You have plenty left in the tank. You're not 'done' just because you're 44 years old!”

Andor sat on the small wooden bench and began untying his shoes. “Mm-hm.”

“Forget the Stanley Cup,” Inna continued. She started pacing. “Just forget it. I don’t ever want to hear about it again. All I want is for that last game to not be your defining moment, and if you go now it will.”

“You are absolutely right.” Andor kicked one shoe off.

“You have given way too much to this game to let it—” Inna stopped her tirade to observe Andor’s nonchalant posture. “Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

Andor removed his other shoe, rested his hands on the bench, and gave Inna that patient-yet-exasperated look of his. “I’ve sat here and nodded in agreement to everything you’ve said, and I’m the one who’s not listening?”

Inna just stared, for once in her life speechless.

“I’m not going to retire, Inna.” Andor stood up, kissed his wife’s cheek, and headed for their bedroom. “But I am going to take a shower.” It was unusually warm in Bergen and Inna could see her husband had worked up a sweat walking home.

Inna was still in shock. “But—”

“Shower first.” Andor interrupted without looking back. “Then talk.”

“What—”

“Shower,” Andor repeated.

“You’re not retiring?” Inna finally managed.

“Oh yeah,” Andor stopped at the doorway to glance back at her. “I’ll retire. Just not this year.” 

.

.

.

“Good morning Seattle,” Fred Vallander said, signaling the beginning of another broadcast day. “And have we got a show for you today. The whole package: The Raptors, your still-sub-.500 Mariners, Seahawks starting training camp—it’s a packed show. The phone lines are already lit up, so we're gonna spare you guys the big intro and go to the phones pretty fast here.”

“But first…” Phil Latham looked over at his partner in crime. “Don’t we have some Raptors-related news to share?”

“We do.” Fred nodded and prepared to swallow his pride in front of the entire greater Seattle area. Phil relished the sight, he had to admit. The two hosts had been going back and forth about this issue since hockey season ended. “Andor Ronningen has announced…” Fred paused for effect. “…he is _not_ retiring. That’s right Seattle, your Raptors will not have to look for another D-man this season.” He looked at Phil. “You think this is a good decision, Phil?”

Phil shrugged. “I think he’s smart enough to know what he’s doing.”

“You think this was at all motivated by his wanting another shot at the Stanley Cup?” Fred asked.

“Mm…” Phil seemed to think about that. “If it is, he’s gotta know the odds aren’t in his favor. The playoffs in hockey are so intense teams don’t usually repeat Finals appearances. That hasn’t happened in what, 15 years? The Red Wings?”

As Phil spoke, Fred found a piece of paper and scribbled on it.

_**If R’s go to SCF next year, you owe me dinner at Ruth’s Chris.** _

“You think the Raptors have what it takes?” Fred slid the paper to Phil.

“Well, their current roster got them to within a game this year,” Phil reasoned, reading the note and writing a response. “I’d say if they can keep most of the team intact and keep Sandy Garneau physically and mentally healthy, they have a decent shot.”

Phil passed the paper back. _**If they WIN I will buy you dinner at Ruth's Chris.**_

Fred nodded and mouthed “ _Game on.”_

Phil smiled and motioned to their producer to bring up the phones.


End file.
